


Zugzwang

by breaumonts (AnonymousCatastrophe405)



Series: I'll Fall With You [2]
Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: Brotherhood, F/M, Family, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 03:29:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16824226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousCatastrophe405/pseuds/breaumonts
Summary: Bertrand wants to scold him, force him back in line, make the empty threats that usually remind Maxwell of how fragile their situation is, but he does none of those things.  House Beaumont is not worth saving without someone to save it for.  God knows he’s never done any of this for himself.  Instead, he exhales, slow and deep, controlling the unsightly flare of his temper.“The season complicates things,” Bertrand tells him, thinking of Savannah.  What would she even say, seeing what he’s been reduced to since she left?  “The forced proximity makes it difficult to discern what feelings you may have are real and which aren’t, but you can’t trust what you’re feeling.”Savannah would slap him if she could hear him now, for many reasons, all of them justified.  It feels wretched to plant this seed of doubt, but Bertrand has to do everything he can think of to convince Maxwell to let this pointless attraction go.





	Zugzwang

**Author's Note:**

> **Zugzwang** \- _(n.) A situation where every possible move or decision is a bad one, or one that will result in damage or loss_

Bertrand notices it later than he should, too long after any point when he may have been able to prevent it, too long past the point of no return. The brothers Beaumont have the same curse, it seems, and it stirs a long-dead instinct, something protective and brotherly, in him to watch Maxwell succumb to it the way he did so many years ago, to loving a woman he can’t have. It’s not that Bertrand doesn’t understand because, objectively, he certainly does: Lisette is beautiful in her redheaded, American way and just reserved enough to make Maxwell want to draw her out of her shell.

It would be so much easier to quell if he could redirect Maxwell’s attention elsewhere, at one of the other suitors less likely to draw the Prince’s eye this late in the season, or at some pretty thing from one of the lesser houses or any of the dozens of coarser, less refined young heiresses on the periphery of Cordonia’s social elite who would be less put off by Maxwell’s flash and expect less money from him. But it remains intent on Lisette despite all sense, all reason, all their intentions for her. 

It’s less than ideal, though Bertrand knows with the sort of certainty that comes from knowing Maxwell his entire life that the Prince has nothing to fear save for some minor social discomfort they’re all too well mannered to acknowledge.

It remains that something must be done to stop this unfortunate, inconvenient infatuation in its tracks before it becomes problematic. The longing looks and lovesick sighs must be stopped, before this pining ruins what is left of House Beaumont. It’s the cruel but necessary thing, for more reasons than Bertrand can begin to name, some bearing more guilt than others. 

“Maxwell, a word?”

Maxwell’s placid smile fades immediately when he sees the look on Bertrand’s face. What a monster he is, to be able to make his cheerful brother recoil like this for no reason at all as they slow their horses until they’re the last in the procession and meters ahead of the security detail bringing up the rear. 

“What is it?” Maxwell almost sounds bored, uncaring, but Bertrand knows him well enough to hear the wariness in his voice, doing his best to diffuse the conversation before he has to defend himself or brace for a reprimand. “Whatever it is, I’m sure I didn’t mean to do it.”

Of that, Bertrand is certain. “I can’t help but notice how close you and Lady Lisette are.” 

“Of course we’re close, we’re friends.” He’s surprised Bertrand has only just noticed, but his grip on the reins tightens and he avoids meeting Bertrand’s eye. This is not something Maxwell wants to talk about. 

“Don’t take me for an fool,” he hisses. Maxwell turns to him, his expression caught out, giving him away because he doesn’t have the guile to mask his feelings better, not when it comes to Bertrand. “You will cease this infatuation with her immediately. You will not be the cause of this family’s downfall so long as I am alive to prevent it.”

Maxwell’s face flushes as he looks away. “I’d never do anything about it, Bertrand. You should know that.”

“How can you expect me to be certain of that when you don’t have the sense to be subtle about it?” 

“Because you should trust me.”

Trust is a weighty word between them. A tangible thing bought and sold but no longer produced, a commodity heavily taxed and often embargoed, always in high demand but with a dwindling supply. It’s something they trade back and forth, but whatever reserves Bertrand may have once had are depleted faster than Maxwell can replenish them, a debt he can’t settle, no matter how hard he tries. 

“Unfortunately, you’ve ever proven yourself trustworthy.” 

A muscle ticks in Maxwell’s jaw, but his eyes stay trained determinedly on the back of his horse’s head. With unusual contempt he snaps, “I don’t know why I still expect anything else from you.” 

He’s probably right, but Bertrand’s pride will never let him admit it. “You will watch your tone, Maxwell. So help me God, I am thinking of what’s best for you.”

“You mean for our house, _Dad_ ,” Maxwell fires back. It’s a low blow, childish, even, and Maxwell has not been a child for many, many years at this point, but it’s hard to remember how long when he still behaves at twenty-seven as he did at seventeen. A decade ago a comment like that would’ve been followed by him storming off before Bertrand could say another word. It still stings just as badly, but less a wound to Bertrand’s ego and more an attack on his character, thrown at him like an insult laced with Maxwell’s complicated feelings about their father, dead only these last two years. 

Bertrand wants to scold him, force him back in line, make the empty threats that usually remind Maxwell of how fragile their situation is, but he does none of those things. House Beaumont is not worth saving without someone to save it for. God knows he’s never done any of this for himself. Instead, he exhales, slow and deep, controlling the unsightly flare of his temper.

“The season complicates things,” Bertrand tells him, thinking of Savannah. What would she even say, seeing what he’s been reduced to since she left? “The forced proximity makes it difficult to discern what feelings you may have are real and which aren’t, but you can’t trust what you’re feeling.”

Savannah would slap him if she could hear him now, for many reasons, all of them justified. It feels wretched to plant this seed of doubt, but Bertrand has to do everything he can think of to convince Maxwell to let this pointless attraction go. 

Maxwell frowns at the horse’s head again, but his eyes cut away to look at the back of Lisette’s head, where Lady Hana is teaching her how to guide her horse in a cloverleaf. He says nothing, but Bertrand hears an echo of his voice, a fight he hadn’t meant to overhear so long ago he’d nearly forgotten it, _I can’t even feel anything right to you!_

One misstep brings the entire house of cards to the ground, and Bertrand has sacrificed too much to allow such a thing to happen while their house and Ramsford are his responsibility. Maxwell has never actually done anything so egregious to warrant such a short leash, but he’s too impulsive and irresponsible to be trusted with complete freedom when House Beaumont is in such shambles. 

And yet, here he, is about to shorten it again, pulling it just a little bit tighter. He lives in constant fear that that leash will someday become a noose and strangle something important. Something valuable. Something innately Maxwell. It’s not a tether he ever wanted to find himself on the other end of.

Bertrand knows his words are falling on deaf ears, that Maxwell has resigned himself to watching and assisting the woman he has feelings for become the future queen at Prince Liam’s side. If he doesn’t spoil things before that happens, that is, and either way he’s going to retreat behind yet another layer of artifice, leaving no one any the wiser that Maxwell Beaumont, court jester, is unhappy.

It’s such a perfect, convincing act even Bertrand isn’t sure how much of it he’s imagining and how much of it is really there, where it even came from, why Maxwell thought it was a necessary trick to learn and when Bertrand realized, again too late, that he doesn’t know when the act started. 

When Maxwell was nineteen, he ran off for weeks between semesters at university. When he was finally dragged home from London considerably worse for wear and oddly pleased with himself, all he had to say was, _Turns out there_ are _some things I’m good at_.

Bertrand wants to believe that something was different after that, but it’s too late to ever know for sure now. There was a time not so long ago when he and Maxwell were inseparable and the four years between them hardly seemed to matter, but now? Now when he looks at his brother he still sees the boy who infuriated every tutor he ever had and struggled endlessly at university and only graduated by some miracle, who had to hold Bertrand’s hand to keep up with him when they were small, who crashed every car he ever owned, who had screaming nightmares about carousels and being watched for years when they were children, who took it to heart each and every time he failed to uphold their father’s impossible standards even when he succeeded.

What he wouldn’t give to be able to cut Maxwell loose, to let him find someplace where he fits rather than selfishly finding reasons to keep him here and trapped in the cage of House Beaumont’s own making. 

Overcome with anger at himself, at Maxwell, at their parents and ancestors, at their circumstances, Bertrand snaps. “You will not squander my trust again. Have I made myself clear?”

Maxwell looks miserable, just for a moment, before he rearranges his expression into something pleasant and perfectly convincing. “Loud and clear.”


End file.
